Beneath the Surface
by Jestana
Summary: When Tonks wakes up in St. Mungo's, Moody is there to tell her what happened. COMPLETE


Beneath the Surface  
  
A/N: Written for the 'It's All Been Done' fic challenge hosted by Aldalindil. Visit her journal for more info.  
  
Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody would be the first to admit that his bedside manner wasn't all that great. He's too gruff and blunt to be a comfort to anyone. That he wasn't much to look at didn't help, either. Most took one look at him and gave him a wide berth. As he studied the unconscious young Auror he'd been virtually ordered to watch over until she awoke, he mused that appearances didn't mean much to her, being a Metamorphagus and all. She usually chose to make her hair the most lurid and vivid colors one can think of, in the most outrageous styles. Now, though, her hair was sleek black and long, contrasting strongly with the white pillow and her alabaster-pale skin. The dark purple bruise around her right eye and spreading onto the cheekbone stood out starkly from the pale skin, which almost blended with the white nightgown the Healers had put her in, a far cry from the colorful clothes she usually wore.  
  
He sighed and shifted in his seat, stretching his wooden leg out in front of him. He himself felt like crusty old leather, molded and shaped by countless duels and battles over the years. Each had left its mark upon him, both on his body and his soul. His skin, where it wasn't seamed with scars, was brown and rough, from long days and nights spent out in the elements. His hair, once a rich dark brown, was now grizzled and grayed from too much sun, wind, and rain. Not to mention his missing leg and eye, courtesy of a mission gone wrong. Even his voice had changed: from a smooth, deep rumble, pleasant to hear, to a rough, gravelly one that rasped in his throat.  
  
A soft moan drew him from his thoughts and he looked to the bed. The occupant was stirring, her legs shifting under the covers and her head moving slightly. He leaned forward and picked up the soft, delicate hand resting on top of the covers. "Nymphadora?"  
  
"Don't call me that," she mumbled, her left eyelid slowly lifting to reveal a dark eye, hazy with confusion. "Mad-Eye? Izzat you?"  
  
He nodded, still holding her hand, as she slowly sat up. He automatically pulled out his wand and conjured up another pillow on top of hers. "Aye, Lassie, it's me."  
  
"Haven't called me that for awhile," she commented as she leaned back against the pillows with a sigh, her Cupid's-bow mouth curving into the barest hint of a smile. "Kinda like it."  
  
He smiled back, relieved to note that her spirits hadn't been dampened by her first serious injury on the job, either as an Auror or a member of the Order. His smile faded when he remembered the news had yet to tell her. "How're you feeling, Lass?"  
  
"Sore," she admitted after a moment's thought, nestling against the pillows a little more firmly. "Can't open my right eye, either."  
  
He sighed, releasing her hand as he sat back in his chair. At least she still had that eye; his had been gouged out by the tip of a wand. The memory of the pain still haunted him sometimes. "That's because you have a black eye."  
  
"Oh." Silence descended on the room as he tried to decide what to say next. Because he couldn't do fieldwork anymore, he often supervised the training of new Aurors, including her. He'd recommended her to Dumbledore for the Order, more for her Metamorphagus ability than anything else. He could yell at her, lecture her, give her orders, even growl at her when he was feeling testy, but he could not, for the life of him, think of a thing to say. "So, like the real me?"  
  
Startled from his reverie, he realized he'd been staring at her the whole time and looked away. "Pardon?"  
  
"Do you like the real me?" she repeated the question, gesturing at herself.  
  
He'd assumed it was her natural appearance, but hadn't wanted to ask, for fear of being wrong. "Oh, it's, er, interesting."  
  
"Interesting?" she repeated, surprised. "I'm bloody black and white, Mad- Eye."  
  
He studied her again, realizing the truth of her words. Her skin was so pale, it was almost white, but her eyes were almost black and her hair and eyelashes _were_ black. Even the white nightgown added to the image. "So you are."  
  
"Exactly. Boring old black and white." Screwing up her face in concentration, her hair shortened and spiked, brightening to a vivid fuchsia. Her skin darkened to the color of a ripe peach. Her nose remained pert, but a sprinkling of freckles appeared across the bridge of it. When she opened her eye, it was bright gold. "There, much more colorful."  
  
He shook his head, bemused. More colorful, yes, but he found he preferred the real her. Not that he would tell _her_ that. "Yes, it is, and more like to draw attention to you."  
  
"Does it matter?" she asked, rolling her eye. The bruise wasn't as vivid against the dark skin, but it was still there.  
  
Without thinking, he asked, "Can you hide the bruise?"  
  
She looked startled for a moment before shaking her head. "No, it's below the surface. I can only affect the surface of my appearance."  
  
"Really?" he asked, intrigued. He'd never heard of that before. Of course, she was the first Metamorphagus he'd met.  
  
She nodded and fidgeted for a moment, looking around the room. "Say, where's Snuffles?"  
  
"What?" It was almost as if she knew he'd been avoiding discussing her cousin.  
  
She rolled her eye again, looking exasperated. "You know, a big black dog who could be a Grim himself?"  
  
"I know who you mean," he snapped, a little more harshly than he meant to. He sighed and rubbed his face with his hand, wondering how to tell her the news.  
  
When he looked at her, she was staring, wide-eyed, at him. "He's dead, isn't he?"  
  
"Aye, Lassie." He didn't see the point in denying the truth. She was going to find out anyway.  
  
She bit her lip and looked down, twisting her hands together in her lap. "Who did it? Who killed him?"  
  
"Bellatrix." His voice was as quiet as hers. She nodded, still not looking at him. Unsure of whether he should stay or go, he remained where he was. "Tonks? Lassie?"  
  
Her voice was thick with tears when she answered. "He wasn't supposed to die. He was supposed to live so we could clear his name and set him free. Free to live and free to care for Harry." She swallowed audibly.  
  
"Lassie, it's okay to cry," he told her, gentling his gravelly voice as best he could. "In fact, you need to cry. Get it all off your chest now so you don't explode at a less opportune time."  
  
She looked up with a watery chuckle, her left cheek already stained with her tears. "Always about the job, isn't it, Mad-Eye?"  
  
"What else would you have me say or do?" he asked, raising a hand to brush at the tear tracks on her cheek.  
  
They both froze when his hand touched her cheek. Her skin was so incredibly soft. He was worried that he'd ruin it somehow and made to pull his hand away. Hers rose and covered it, keeping it in place. "Hold me?"  
  
Long after she'd fallen asleep, spent with grief, he lay awake, just watching her. Maybe his bedside manner wasn't so bad after all. Carefully brushing the long black hair back from her face and throat, he lowered his head and lightly brushed his lips across her cheek. Smiling slightly, he laid his head beside hers on the pillow and let sleep claim him. 


End file.
